Bring Me Home Again
by Holly is a Potterhead
Summary: It was just one little bump between two strangers. A small, curvy brunette colliding with a tall, lanky redhead. Apologies were exchanged, and the two went on their way. Neither of them knew how much trouble that one little bump would bring them.
1. Uncomfortably Numb

_It was just an accidental bump between two strangers. A small, curvy brunette colliding with a tall, lanky redhead. Apologies were exchanged and they both went on their way._

Neither realized that that tiny, insignificant bump would lead to a whole new world of trouble.

George grimaced as he popped the key into the lock on his office door, twisting hard until something inside pinged and the door eased open. He hated that lock with a fiery passion. He was constantly forgetting his key, and he couldn't remember for the life of him why he'd let Fred convince him that hexing the lock so that it could not be opened via magic was such a good idea. "The only people we have to worry about now are muggles, and they can't even see the shop!" his twin had exclaimed, grinning widely. He couldn't believe he still remembered it that vividly. Dropping his bag on his chair, he shouldered out of the fleece and denim jacket combination he'd taken to wearing since the weather, had turned and replaced it with his bright maroon, yellow and purple jacket that had the "Weasley's Wizard Wheezes" logo embroidered on the left breast pocket. Before Fred had died, running the shop had never felt like work. It felt like coming home. Today was especially bad. "As of," he said to himself, pausing to check the battered watch that had once been his fathers. "Six hours ago, Fred has been for five years." He grimaced as the words left his mouth. "Miss you, Freddie," he added to the jacket that matched his own hidden in the closet as he wandered out into the shop.

Lee grinned as George came out of his office, closing the door behind him. "Morning, Georgie" he said, sliding off of the counter where he'd been sitting, repairing one of the older toys the shop sold; a wind up doll that greatly resembled Dolores Umbridge that waddled around honking and squeaking out "I am the senior undersecretary for the minister of magic!" and "I _will_ have order!" when wound up. Lee set the toy on the desk and gave the key embedded in its back a firm twist, sending it waddling along the length of the counter, hooting and squawking. Usually it would have made George smile, but not today. With a sigh, Lee patted his friend's shoulder. "Buck up, mate" he said quietly, putting his free hand in his pocket. "Fred would have jinxed you several times by now for being this unhappy". George just sighed. "I know, " he muttered as he walked away, shoulders slumped and hands in his pocket.

* * *

><p>The clock read as eleven minutes past twelve when George finally gave in to Lee's constant suggestions that he should go take an extra long lunch break and treat himself to something special. Flipping up the hood of his jacket, he meandered down the street, pausing occasionally to look at something in a window, or say hello to someone whose name he couldn't remember to save his life. It was right as he turned to enter the Hogs Head, his newly found favorite place to drink, that he felt a slight nudge near his ribs and heard a very feminine sounding huff of "Oh,". Glancing down, he realized that there was a small brunette girl sprawled at his feet with several parcels and a broomstick lying around and on top of her. "Sorry," He muttered, crouching down to pick up the parcels and the broomstick before helping her to her feet. "Didn't see you there"<p>

"Most people don't" the girl replied, half smiling as she took her parcels back from him and flipping the hood back up on her cloak as she walked away. For some reason, George felt the need to wave, and he did, which he immediately regretted as he walked inside the pub.

"Who's your friend, George?" someone jeered from a table, and George shrugged. "No idea. Just bumped into her and helped her up" he said, taking a seat at the bar and nodding at Aberforth, who raised his eyebrows. "What can I get ye, George?" he growled, rubbing an old wound on his thigh as he limped over to the counter. "A warm Butterbeer to warm ye up?"

George shook his head. "I'm in the mood for something stronger" he said, rubbing his hands against his thighs to bring the circulation back into them. "Firewhiskey, if you please"

Aberforth nodded. "It's that time of year, eh?" he said, pulling out a half empty bottle of the amber liquor and filling a shot glass that he then slid to George, not spilling a drop. "To Fred," he said, filling himself a glass and raising it in a toast.

"To Fred," George agreed, downing the liquor and savoring the burning trail that it left in his throat, erasing the numbness that had settled on him when he'd woken up that morning.


	2. Misery Loves Company

Chapter 2.

George never did go back to work. After a few more glasses of Firewhiskey with Aberforth, he walked back to the shop, told Lee he didn't feel well and then apparated home. When he landed in the front foyer of the Burrow, it was dead silent, save for the echoes of the resounding 'crack!' his apparation made. With a sigh, he slipped out of his jacket and his boots and then wandered into the house, grabbing an apple out of the fruit bowl as he passed it on his way to his room. After climbing the stairs with a mild amount of difficulty thanks to his alcohol-reduced depth perception, he got to his room. Said room was much more barren than it once was. Fred's bed had gone to Ginny and Harry's house for James' fourth birthday present, and the night table had gone to Ron and Hermione's as a wedding present. All that was left was his bed, night table, a small dresser, and two portraits of Fred; A large one hanging on the wall, and a smaller one on the bedside. The one on the bedside was the one that George reached for when he sat down on his bed, suddenly regretting all those Firewhiskey shots when the world started to spin as he called to his twin. "Freddie, wake up,"

"'Ello, George" Fred grinned as he sidled into the frame, grinning widely. "How are you?"

George could only grimace. "Horrible. I'm drunk and I miss you" he admitted, cradling the frame in one hand and wiping at his nose with the other because it was running profusely. "You know what day it is, don't you Freddie?"

The painting's reaction was a mirror image of George's. "Funeral or Gargoyle-to-the-back-of-the-head day?" Fred asked, wrinkling his nose and rubbing the back of the head where the flying piece of gargoyle had hit him in the head during the Battle of Hogwarts, crushing his skull.

"Funeral," George said, still wiping his nose, which was getting worse as he tried to suppress the tears that had been building in the back of his throat since he'd gotten home. "It nearly killed me to watch you being put six feet under" he admitted for the umpteenth time since he'd gotten the portrait. Fred nodded knowingly. "It had already killed me," he joked, trying to comfort his twin as best he could. The attempt fell flat as George's sniffling suddenly became bone-racking sobs that made him double over, his tears dripping onto the delicate metal frame in his hands. He both hated and loved the paintings. Sometimes, they comforted him and let him talk to Fred, killing time with endless banter between the two of them. Other days, like today, he despised them; despised the fact that it was only a painted copy of his twin who couldn't really feel or understand. "I have to go," he rasped, choking on the sobs as he set the portrait down. "I'll talk to you later, Freddie" he said, standing up and walking from the room as fast as he could before collapsing on the landing and yelling his misery to the rafters.

Molly got home soon after he managed to calm himself down. She made no pretense of being strong like he had as she sat down with him, cradling his head against her shoulder and stroking his hair. "Oh, Georgie," she murmured, kissing the top of his head. "What are we going to do with you?"

"You could throw me off the astronomy tower," he said miserably, burying his face in her sweater and breathing in the smell of fresh baked bread and lilacs that he'd always associated with comfort and safety. "I miss him so much"

Molly sighed and wiped her cheeks with the sleeve of her sweater. "I know, love, me too"

George closed his eyes and let himself sleep. Today had been bad, but tomorrow was going to be much, much, much worse.


	3. The Good, the Bad and the Ugly

Bring Me Home Again, Chapter 3

By ten o'clock the next morning, Lee had forced George out of the shop and off to the Hog's Head to drink away his misery.

The anniversary of Fred's funeral was always hard, but the day after was worse. The day after, all he could think about was Fred; what would he be doing if he was alive? Would he be married? Have kids? It had always been this way. The day after Fred's funeral, he hadn't left the house because everything outside of the house reminded him of Fred.

The same was true of today.

He was so deeply lost in his thoughts that he almost missed the tiny nudge down by his ribs and the little gasp of "Oh,"

"Deja vu," he muttered as he bent down to help the girl with her parcels and broomstick. "Come here often?"

"Yeah," the girl agreed, her voice hitching as a muscular warlock clapped a hand onto her shoulder and spun her around.

"Come now, Meghan, we don't want to be late, do we?" the warlock's voice was jovial, but George couldn't help noticing a hint of malice in the words too.

"No, Gavin," Meghan murmured, her shoulders slumping and jerking as she walked away, which didn't make sense to George; why would someone walk like that? It couldn't be comfortable. That's when he realized Gavin had a hand on a pressure point, and he was squeezing it like there was no tomorrow.

Scowling, he turned into the bar. What happened to Meghan was her business. He had no right to interfere.

At least that's what he told himself as he drowned the numbness in liquor once again.

It was just past two in the morning when George came to. He was still at the Hog's Head; there was a half empty glass of Butterbeer in his hand, and what felt like a small pack of goblins stomping through his head wearing hobnailed boots.

"Bugger," he groaned, wincing as the lights from the candles stung his eyes. "What time is it, Abe?"

Aberforth grinned at George from behind the bar. "'Tis time for you to go home, mate. This habit of yours isn' healthy"

George grimaced and tried to stand up. "I'm not healthy, Abe" he said, staggering and almost knocking the stool he was using to balance over. "I think I can afford to drink my sorrows away once or twice"

Aberforth snorted. "Five or six times is more like it," he said, waving a hand at him. "Go home and sleep yourself sober"

George nodded, staggering to the door and out onto the street. He really didn't feel like going home. Not when Fred's portraits were there. So he contented himself with wandering the streets.

He could hear an angry buzzing noise starting to build in his good ear as he walked, getting more intense as he got closer to a rather dilapidated looking apartment building, or rather the alley beside it. Every so often, he would also hear a small popping noise that, for some reason, reminded him of a spell hitting a solid object.

That wasn't what made him pause at the entrance to the alley. It was the flash of long brunette hair flying as something struck what it was attached to again, and again, and again.


End file.
